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MABEL MARTIN 

AND 

OTHER POEMS 

BY 

^ JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
WITH' NOTES 

AND 

A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 



^ HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
Boston : 4 Park Street 
New York: h East 17TH Street 
2C|)f iSibfvsitie Press, CambriOQe 



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PRICE FIFTEEN CENTS 



Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. 




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SDlje lEtitifrsiDe ILitfrature ^txiiS 



MABEL MARTIN, AND OTHER 

POEMS ' 



BY 



/" 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 



w 



WITH NOTES 



AND 



A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 






APR 13 1884 
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HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND' 

Boston: 4 Park Street; New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street 

1884 



T5 -i^ic 



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Copyright, 1850, 1853, 1856, 1860, 1863, 1868, 1875, 1S78, and 18S4, 
By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

All rights reserved. 



The Riverside Press, Cambridge: 
Electrotyped and Printed by II. 0. Houghton & Co. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER, of Quaker birth 
in Puritan surroundings, was born at the homestead 
near Haverhill, Massachusetts, December 17, 1807. 
Until his eighteenth year he lived at home, working 
upon the farm and in the little shoemaker's shop which 
nearly every farm then had as a resource in the other- 
wise idle hours of winter. The manual, homely labor 
upon which he was employed was in part the foundation 
of that deep interigst which the poet never has ceased to 
take in the toil and plain fortunes of the people. Through- 
out his poetry runs this golden tlu-ead of sympathy with 
honorable labor and enforced poverty, and many poems 
are directly inspired by it. While at work with his fa- 
ther he sent poems to the Haverhill Gazette, and that 
he was not in subjection to his work is very evident by 
the fact that he translated it and similar occupations 
into Songs of Labor. He had two years' academic train- 
ing, and in 1829 became editor in Boston of the Ameri- 
can Manufacturer^ a paper published in the interest of 
the tariff. In 1831 he published his Legends of New 
England, prose sketches in a department of literature 
which has always had strong claims upon his interest. 
No American writer, unless Irving be excepted, has done 



4 WHITTIER. 

so much to throw a graceful veil of poetry and legend 
over the country of his daily life. Essex County, in 
Massachusetts, and the beaches lying between Newbury- 
port and Portsmouth, blossom with flowers of Whittier's 
planting. He has made rare use of the homely stories 
which he had heard in his childhood, and learned after- 
ward from familiar intercourse with country people, and 
he has himself used invention delicately and in harmony 
with the spirit of the New England coast. Although of 
a body of men who in earlier days had been persecuted 
by the Puritans of New England, his generous mind has 
not failed to detect all the good that was in the stern 
creed and life of the persecutors, and to bring it forv/ard 
into the light of his poetry. 

In 1836 he published Mogg Megone^ a poem which 
stands first in the collected edition of his poems, and 
was admitted there with some reluctance, apparently, by 
the author. In that and the Bridal of Pennacook he 
draws his material from the relation held between the 
Indians and the settlers. His sympathy was always 
with the persecuted and oj^pressed, and while histori- 
cally he found an object of pity and self-reproach in the 
Indian, his profoundest compassion and most stirring 
indignation were called out by African slavery. From 
the earliest he was upon the side of the abolition party. 
Year after year poems fell from his pen in which with 
all the eloquence of his nature he sought to enlist his 
countrymen upon the side of emancipation and freedom. 
It is not too much to say that in the slow development of 
public sentiment Whittier's steady song was one of the 
most powerful advocates that the slave had, all the more 
powerful that it was free from malignity or unjust accu- 
sation. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 5 

"Wliittler's poems have been issued in a number of 
small volumes, and collected into single larger volumes. 
Besides those already indicated, there are a number 
which owe their origin to his tender regard for domestic 
life and the simple experience of the men and women 
about him. Of these Snow-Bound is the most memora- 
ble. Then his fondness for a story has led him to use 
the ballad form in many cases, and Mahel Martin is 
one of a number, in which the narrative is blended with 
a fine and strong charity. The catholic mind of this 
writer and his instinct for discovering the pure moral in 
human action are disclosed by a number of poems, drawn 
from a wide range of historical fact, dealing with a great 
variety of religious faiths and circumstances of life, but 
always pointing to some sweet and strong truth of the 
divine life. Of such are The Brother of Mercy^ The 
Gift ofTritemius, The Two Rahbis^ and others. Whit- 
tier's Prose Works are comprised in two volumes, and 
consist mainly of his contributions to journals and of 
Leaves from Margaret SmitKs Journal^ a fictitious 
diary of a visitor to New England in 1678. 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

I. Mabel Martin. 

Part I. The River Valley 7 

Part 11. The Husking 10 

Part III. The Witch's Daughter .12 

Part IV. The Champion 15 

Part V. In the Shadow 16 

Part VI. The Betrothal 19 

II. Cobbler Keezar's Vision 21 

III. Barclay of Ury 28 

IV. Maud Muller 34 

V. Kathleen 39 

VI. Red Riding-Hood 44 

VII. In School-Days 46 

VIII. Mary Garvin 48 

IX. The Exiles 55 



I. 

MABEL MARTIN. 

[This poem was published in 1875, but it had al- 
ready appeared in an earlier version in 1860 under the 
title of The Witch's Daughter in Home Ballads and 
other Poems. Mabel Martin is in the same measure as 
The Witch's Daughter, and many of the verses are 
the same, but the poet has taken the first draft as a 
sketch, filled it out, adding verses here and there, alter- 
ing lines and making an introduction, so that the new 
version is a third longer than the old. The reader will 
find it interesting to compare the two poems. The scene 
is laid -on the Merrimack, as Deer Island and Hawks- 
wood, near Newburyport, intimate. A fruitful compar- 
ison mio-ht be drawn between the treatment of such sub- 
jects by Whittier and by Hawthorne.] 



PART I. 

THE RIVER VALLEY. 

Across the level table-land, 
A grassy, rarely trodden way, 
With tliiimest skirt of birchen spray 

And stunted growth of cedar, leads 
To where you see the dull plain fall 
Sheer off, steep-slanted, ploughed by all 



8 MABEL MARTIN. 

The seasons' rainfalls. On its brink 
The over-leaning harebells swing ; 
With roots half bare the pine-trees cling ; 

10 And, through the shadow looking west, 
You see the wavering river flow 
Along a vale, that far below 

Holds to the sun, the sheltering hills, 
And glimmering water-line between, 
16 Broad fields of corn and meadows green, 

And fruit-bent orchards grouped around 
The low brown roofs and painted eaves. 
And chimney-tops half hid in leaves. 

No warmer valley hides behind 
20 Yon wind-scourged sand-dunes, cold and bleak, 
No fairer river comes to seek 

The wave-sung welcome of the sea, 
Or mark the northmost border line 
Of sun-loved growths of nut and vine. 

25 Here, ground-fast in their native fields, 
Untempted by the city's gain, 
The quiet farmer folk remain 

Who bear the pleasant name of Friends, 
And keep their fathers' gentle ways 
so And simple speech of Bible days ; 

In whose neat homesteads woman holds 



THE RIVER VALLEY. 9 

With modest ease her equal place, 
And wears upon her tranquil face 

The look of one who, merging not 
35 Her self-hood in another's will, 

Is love's and duty's handmaid still. 

Pass with me down the path that winds 
Through hirches to the open land. 
Where, close upon the river strand 

40 You mark a cellar, vine-o'errun, 

Above whose wall of loosened stones 
The sumach lifts its reddening cones, 

And the black nightshade's berries shine, 
And broad, unsightly burdocks fold 
45 The household ruin century-old. 

Here, in the dim colonial time 

Of sterner lives and gloomier faith, 
A woman lived, tradition saith. 

Who wrought her neighbors foul annoy, 
BO And witched and plagued the country-side, 
Till at the hangman's hand she died. 

Sit with me while the westering day 
Falls slantwise down the quiet vale, 
And, haply, ere yon loitering sail, 

55 That round the upper headland falls 
Below Deer Island's pines, or sees 
Behind it Hawkswood's belt of trees 



10 MABEL MARTIN. 

Rise black against the sinking sun, 
My idyl of its days of old, 
60 . The valley's legend shall be told. 



PAUT II. 

THE HUSKING. 

It was the pleasant harvest-time, 
When cellar-bins are closely stowed, 
And garrets bend beneath their load, 

And the old swallow-haunted barns, — 
65 Brown-gabled, long, and full of seams 

Through which the moted sunlight streams, 

And winds blow freshly in, to shake 
The red plumes of the roosted cocks, 
And the loose hay-mow's scented locks, — 

70 Are filled with summer's ripened stores. 
Its odorous grass and barley sheaves, 
From their low scaffolds to their eaves. 

On Esek Harden's oaken floor. 

With many an autumn threshing worn, 
75 Lay the heaj)ed ears of unhusked corn. 

And thither came young men and maids. 
Beneath a moon that, large and low. 
Lit that sweet eve of long ago. 

They took their places ; some by chance, 



THE HUSKING. H 

80 And others by a merry voice 

Or sweet smile guided to their choice. 

How pleasantly the rising moon, 
Between the shadow of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs ! 

85 On sturdy boyhood, sun-embrowned, 
On girlhood with its solid curves 
Of healthful strength and painless nerves ! 

And jests went romid, and laughs that made 
The house-dog answer with his howl, 
90 And kept astir the barn-yard fowl ; 

And quaint old songs their fathers sung 
In Derby dales and Yorkshire moors, 
Ere Norman WiUiam trod their shores ; 

And tales, whose merry license shook 
95 The fat sides of the Saxon thane. 
Forgetful of the hovering Dane, — 

Rude plays to Celt and Cimbri known, 
The charms and riddles that beguiled 
On Oxus' banks the young world's child, — 

100 That primal picture-speech wherein 

Have youth and maid the story told, 
So new in each, so dateless old, 

99. The Oxus, which was the great river of Upper Asia, flowed past what 
has been regarded as the birthplace of Western people, who emigrated from 
that centre. Some of the riddles and plays which we have are of great antiq- 
uity and may have been handed down from the time when our ancestors were 
still Asiatics. 



12 MABEL MARTIN. 

Recalling pastoral Ruth in her 

Who waited, blushing and demure, 
105 The red-ear's kiss of forfeiture. 



PAUT III. 



THE witch's daughter. 



But still the sweetest voice was mute 
That river-valley ever heard 
From lips of maid or throat of bird ; 

For Mabel Martin sat apart, 
110 And let the hav-mow's shadow fall 
Upon the loveliest face of all. 

She sat apart, as one forbid, 

Who knew that none would condescend 
To own the Witch-wife's child a friend. 

115 The seasons scarce had gone their round, 
Since curious thousands thronged to see 
Her mother at the gallows-tree ; 

And mocked the prison-palsied limbs 
That faltered on the fatal stairs, 
120 And wan lip trembling with its prayers ! 

Few questioned of the sorrowing child. 
Or, when they saw the mother die, 
Dreamed of the daughter's agony. 

117. In Upham's Historrj of Salem Witchcraft will be found an account of 
the trial and execution of Susanna Martin for witchcraft. 



THE WITCH'S DAUGHTER. 13 

They went up to their homes that day, 
125 As men and Christians justified : 

God willed it, and the wretch had died ! 

Dear God and father of us all, 
Forgive our faith in cruel lies, — 
Forgive the blindness that denies ! 

130 Forgive thy creature when he takes, 
For the all-perfect love Thou art, 
Some grim creation of his heart. 

Cast down our idols, overturn 
Our bloody altars ; let us see 
135 Thyself in Thy humanity ! 

Young Mabel from her mother's grave 
Crept to her desolate hearth-stone, 
And wrestled with her fate alone ; 

With love, and anger, and despair, 
140 The phantoms of disordered sense, 
The awful doubts of Providence ! 

Oh, dreary broke the winter days, 
And dreary fell the winter nights 
When, one by one, the neighboring lights 

145 Went out, and human sounds grew still. 
And all the phantom-peopled dark 
Closed round her hearth-fire's dying spark. 

And summer days were sad and long, 



14 MABEL MARTIN. 

And sad the uncomiDanioned eves, 
160 And sadder sunset-tinted leaves, 

And Indian Summer's airs of balm ; 
She scarcely felt the soft caress, 
The beauty died of loneliness 1 

The school-boys jeered her as they passed, 
165 And, when she sought the house of prayer. 
Her mother's curse pursued her there. 

And still o'er many a neighboring door 
She saw the horseshoe's curved charm, 
To guard against her mother's harm : 

160 That mother, poor and sick and lame. 
Who daily, by the old arm-chair, 
Folded her withered hands in prayer ; — 

Who turned, in Salem's dreary jail, 
Her worn old Bible o'er and o'er, 
165 When her dim eyes could read no more I 

Sore tried and pained, the poor girl kept 
Her faith, and trusted that her way, 
So dark, would somewhere meet the day. 

And still her weary wheel went round 
170 Day after day, with no rehef : 

Small leisure have the poor for grief. 



THE CHAMPION. 15 

PART IV. 

THE CHAMPION. 

So in the shadow Mabel sits ; 

Untouched by mirth she sees and hears, 
Her smile is sadder than her tears. 

175 But cruel eyes have found her out, 
And cruel lips repeat her name, 
And taunt her with her mother's shame. 

She answered not with railing words, 
But drew her apron o'er her face, 
180 And, sobbing, glided from the place. 

And only pausing at the door. 

Her sad eyes met the troubled gaze 
Of one who, in her better days, 

Had been her warm and steady friend, 
185 Ere yet her mother's doom had made 
Even Esek Harden half afraid. 

He felt that mute appeal of tears. 
And, starting, with an angry frown, 

Hushed all the wicked murmurs down. 

if 

190 " Good neighbors mine," he sternly said, 
" This passes harmless mirth or jest; 
I brook no insult to my guest. 



16 MABEL MARTIN. 

" She Is indeed her mother's child ; "" 
But God's sweet pity ministers 
195 Unto no whiter soul than hers. 

" Let Goody Martin rest in peace ; 
I never knew her harm a fly, 
And witch or not, God knows — not I. 

" I know who swore her life away ; 
200 And as God lives I 'd not condemn 
An Indian dos on word of them." 



'& 



The broadest lands in all the town, 
The skill to guide, the power to awe. 
Were Harden's ; and his word was law. 

206 None dared withstand him to his face, 
But one sly maiden spake aside : 
" The little witch is evil-eyed ! 

" Her mother only killed a cow. 
Or witched a churn or dairy-pan ; 
210 But she, forsooth, must charm a man ! " 



PAET V. 

IX THE SHADOW. 

Poor Mabel, homeward turimig, passed 
The nameless terrors of the wood. 
And saw, as if a ghost pursued, 

Her shadow gliding in the moon ; 



IN TEE SHADOW. 17 

215 The soft .breath of the west-wind gave 
A chill as from her mother's grave. 

How dreary seemed the silent house ! 
Wide in the moonbeams' ghastly glare 
Its windows had a dead man's stare ! 

220 And, like a gaunt and spectral hand, 
The tremulous shadow of a birch 
Reached out and touched the door's low porch 

As if to lift its latch : hard by, 

A sudden warning call she heard, 
225 The night-cry of a brooding bird. 

She leaned against the door ; her face, 
So fair, so young, so full of pain. 
White in the moonlight's silver rain. 

The river, on its pebbled rim, 
230 Made music such as childhood knew ; 

The door-yard tree was whispered through 

Ey voices such as childhood's ear 
Had heard in moonlights long ago ; 
And through the willow-boughs below 

235 She saw the rippled waters «hine ; 

Beyond, in waveS of shade and light, 
The hills rolled off into the ni^ht. 



'& 



She saw and heard, but over all 
A sense of some transforming spell, 
240 The shadow on her sick heart fell. 



18 MABEL MARTIN. 

And still across the wooded space 
The harvest lights of Harden shone, 
And song and jest and laugh went on. 

And he, so gentle, true, and strong, 
245 Of men the bravest and the best, 

Had he, too, scorned her with the rest ? 

She strove to drown her sense of wrong, 
And, in her old and simple way, 
To teach her bitter heart to pray. 

250 Poor child ! the prayer, begun in faith 
Grew to a low, desj)airing cry 
Of utter misery : " Let me die ! 

*' Oh ! take me from the scornful eyes, 

And hide me where the cruel speech 

255 And mocking finger may not reach ! 

" I dare not breathe my mother's name : 
A daughter's rioht I dare not crave 
To weep above her unblest grave ! 

" Let me not live until my heart, 
260 With few to pity, and with none 
To love me, hardens into stone. 



'J 



" O God ! have mercy on thy child, 

"Whose faith in Thee grows weak and small. 
And take me ere I lose it all ! " 

265 A shadow on the moonlight fell. 



THE BETROTHAL. 19 

during wind and wave becai 
A voice whose burden was her name. 



And murmuring wind and wave became 



PART VI. 

THE BETROTHAL. 

Had then God heard her ? Had He sent 
His angel down? In flesh and blood, 
270 Before her Esek Harden stood ] 

He laid his hand upon her arm : 

" Dear Mabel this no more shall be ; 
Who scoffs at you must scoff at me. 

" You know rough Esek Harden well ; 
275 And if he seems no suitor gay. 

And if his hair is touched with gray, 

" The maiden grown shall never find 

His heart less warm than when she smiled. 
Upon his knees, a little cliild ! " 

280 Her tears of grief vrere tears of joy. 
As, folded in his strong embrace, 
She looked in Esek Harden's face. 

" Oh, truest friend of all ! " she said, 

" God bless you for your kindly thought, 
285 And make me worthy of my lot ! " 

He led her forth, and, blent in one. 
Beside their happy pathway ran 
The shadows of the maid and man. 



20 MABEL MARTIN. 

He led her through his dewy fields, 
290 To where the swinging lanterns glowed, 

And through the doors the huskers showed. 



(( 



Good friends and neighbors ! " Esek said, 
" I 'm weary of this lonely life ; 
In Mabel see my chosen wife ! 



295 " She greets you kindly, one and all ; 
The past is past, and all offence 
Falls harmless frdm her innocence. 

" Henceforth she stands no more alone ; 
You know what Esek Harden is ; — 
^ 300 He brooks no wrong to him or his. 

" Now let the merriest tales be told, 
And let the sweetest songs be sung 
That ever made the old heart young ! 

" For now the lost has found a home ; 
305 And a lone hearth shall brighter burn, 
As all the household joys return ! " 

Oh, pleasantly the harvest-moon. 
Between the shadow of the mows, 
Looked on them through the great elm-boughs 1 

310 On Mabel's curls of golden hair. 

On Esek's shaggy strength it fell ; 
And the wind whispered, " It is well ! " 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 21 



II. 

COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 

[" This ballad was written," Mr. Whittier says, " on 
the occasion of a Horticultural Festival. Cobbler Kee- 
zar was a noted character among the first settlers in the 
valley of the Merrimack."] 



The beaver cut his timber 

With patient teeth that day, 
The minks were fish-wards, and the crows 

Surveyors of highway, — 

5 When Keezar sat on the hill-side 
Upon his cobbler's form. 
With a pan of coals on either hand 
To keep his waxed-ends warm. 

And there, in the golden weather, 
10 He stitched and hammered and sung ; 
In the brook he moistened his leather, 
In the pewter mug his tongue. 

Well knew the tough old Teuton 
W^ho brewed the stoutest ale, 
15 'And he paid the goodwife's reckoning 
In the coin of song and tale. 

The songs they still are singing 
Who dress the hiUs of vine, 



22 COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 

The tales that haunt the Brocken 
20 And whisper, down the Rhine. 

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 

The swift stream wound away, 
Through birches and scarlet maples 

Flashing in foam and spray, — 

26 Do-VAni on the sharp-horned ledges 
Plunging in steep cascade, 
Tossino- its white-maned waters 
Afiainst the hemlock's shade. 

Woodsy and wild and lonesome, 
30 East and west and north and south ; 
Only the village of fishers 
Down at the river's mouth ; 

Only here and there a clearing, 

With its farm-house rude and new, 
35 And tree-stumps, swart as Indians, 
Where the scanty harvest grew. 

No shout of home-bound reapers, 

No vintage-song he heard, 
And on the green no dancing feet 
40 The merry violin stirred. 

" Why should folk be glum," said Keezar, 
" When nature herself is glad, 

19. The Brocken is the highest summit of the Hartz range in Germany, 
and a great body of superstitions has gathered about the whole range. May- 
day night, called Walpurgis Night, is held to be the time of a great witch fes- 
tival ou the Brocken. 



COBBLER KEEZAES VISION. 23 

And the painted woods are laughing 
At the faces so sour and sad ? " 

45 Small heed had the careless cobbler 
What sorrow of heart was theirs 
Who travailed in pain with the births of God, 
And planted a state with prayers, — 

Hunting of witches and warlocks, 
60 Smiting the heathen horde, — 
One hand on the mason's trowel, 
And one on the soldier's sword ! 

But give him his ale and cider. 
Give him his pipe and song, 
55 Little he cared for Church or State, 
Or the balance of right and wrong. 

" 'T is work, work, work," he muttered, — 

" And for rest a snuffle of psalms ! " 
He smote on his leathern apron 
60 With his brown and waxen palms. 

" Oh for the jDurple harvests 

Of the days when I was young ! 
For the merry grape-stained maidens. 

And the pleasant songs they sung ! 

65 " Oh for the breath of vineyards, 
Of apples and nuts and wine ! 
For an oar to row and a breeze to blow 
Down the grand old river Rhine ! " 



24 COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 

A tear In his blue eye glistened, 
70 And dropped on his beard so gray. 
"Old, old am I," said Keezar, 

" And the Rhine flows far away ! " 

But a cunning man was the cobbler ; 
He could call the birds from the trees, 
75 Charm the black snake out of the ledges, 
And bring back the swarming bees. 

All the virtues of herbs and metals. 

All the lore of the woods, he knew, 
And the arts of the Old World mingled 
80 With the marvels of the New. 

Well he knew the tricks of magic, 

And the lapstone on his knee 
Had the gift of the Mormon's goggles, 

Or the stone of Doctor Dee. 

85 For the mighty master Agrippa 

Wrought it with spell and rhyme 
From ^ fragment of mystic moonstone 
In the tower of Nettesheim. 

To a cobbler Minnesinger 
90 The marvellous stone gave he, — 
And he gave it, in turn, t3 Keezar, 
Who brought it over the sea. 

84. Dr. John Dee was a man of vast knowledge, who had an extensive mu- 
seum, library, and apparatus ; he claimed to be an astrologer, and had acquired 
the reputation of having dealings with evil spirits, and a mob was raised which 
destroyed the greater part of his possessions. H3 professed to raise the dead 
and had a magic crystal. He died a pauper in 1G08. 

85. Hemy Cornelius Agriijpa { 1486-1535 ) was an alchemist. 



COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 25 

He held up that mystic lapstone, 
He held it up like a lens, 
85 And lie counted the long years coming 
By twenties and by tens. 

" One hundred years, " quoth Keezar, 

" And fifty have I told : 
Now open the new before me, 
100 And shut me out the old ! " 

Like a cloud of mist, the blackness 

Rolled from the magic stone, 

And a marvellous picture mingled 

The unknown and the known. 

105 Still ran the stream to the river, 
And river and ocean joined ; 
And there were the bluffs and the blue sea-line, 
And cold north hills behind. 

But the mighty forest was broken 
no By many a steepled town. 

By many a white-walled farm-house, 
And many a garner brown. 

Turning a score of mill-wheels. 
The stream no more ran free ; 
115 White sails on the winding river, 
White sails on the far-off sea. 

Below in the noisy village 

The flags were floating gay. 
And shone on a thousand faces 
120 The light of a holiday. 



26 COBBLER KEEZARS VISION. 

Swiftly the rival jjloughmen 

Turned the brown earth from their shares ; 
Here were the farmer's treasures, 

There were the craftsman's wares. 

125 Golden the goodwife's butter, 
Ruby her currant- wine ; 
Grand were the strutting turkeys, 
Fat were the beeves and swine. 

Yellow and red were the apples, 
130 And the ripe pears russet-brown. 
And the peaches had stolen blushes 
From the girls who shook them down. 

And with blooms of hill and wild-wood, 
That shame the toil of art, 
135 Mingled the gorgeous blossoms 
Of the garden's tropic heart. 

" What is it I see ? " said Keezar : 

" Am I here, or am I there ? 
Is it a fete at Bingen ? 
140 Do I look on Franldort fair ? 

" But where are the clowns and puppets, 
And imj)s with horns and tail ? 

And where are the Rhenish flacrons ? 
And where is the foaming ale ? 

145 " Strange things, I know, will happen, — 
Strange things the Lord permits ; 
But that droughty folk should be jolly 
Puzzles my poor old wits. 



COBBLER KEEZAR'S VISION. 27 

'' Here are smiling manly faces, 
150 And the maiden's step is gay ; 

Nor sad by thinking, nor mad by drinking, 
Nor mopes, nor fools, are they. 

Here 's pleasure without regretting, 
And good without abuse, 
155 The holiday and the bridal 
Of beauty and of use. 

" Here 's a priest and there is a Quaker, — 

Do the cat and dog agree ? 
Have they burned the stocks for oven-wood ? 
160 Have they cut down the gallows-tree ? 

" Would the old folks know their children ? 

^ Would they own the graceless town, 
With never a ranter to worry 
And never a witch to drown ? " 

165 Loud laughed the cobbler Keezar, 
Laughed like a school-boy gay ; 
Tossing his arms above him. 
The lapstone rolled away. 

It rolled down the rugged hill-side, 
170 It spun like a wheel bewitched, 

It plunged through the leaning willows. 
And into the river pitched. 

There, in the deep, dark water. 
The magic stone lies still, 
176 Under the leaning willows 
In the shadow of the hill. 



28 BARCLAY OF URY. 

But oft the idle fisher 

Sits on tlie shadowy bank, 
And his dreams make marvellous pictures 
180 Where the wizard's lapstone sank. 

And still, in the summer twilights, 
When the river seems to run 

Out from the inner glory, 
Warm with the melted sun, 

185 The weary mill-girl lingers 

Beside the charmed stream, 
And the sky and the golden water 
Shape and color her dream. 

Fair wave the sunset gardens, 
190 The rosy signals fly ; 

Her homestead beckons from the cloud, 
And love goes sailing by ! 



III. 
BARCLAY OF URY. 

fAMO]S"G the earliest converts to the doctrines of 
Friends in Scotland v/as Barclay of Ury, an old and 
distmguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus 
Adolphus in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the 
object of fjersecution and abuse at the hands of the 
magistrates and the populace. None bore the indigni- 
ties of the mob with greater patience and nobleness of 
soul than this once proud gentleman and soldier. One 



BARCLAY OF URY. 29 

of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, 
lamented that he should be treated so harshly in his old 
age who had been so honored before. " I find more 
satisfaction," srid Barclay, " as well as honor, in being 
thus insulted for my religious principles, than when, a 
few years ago, it was usual for the magistrates, as I 
passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road and 
conduct me to public entertainment in their hall, and then 
escort me out again, to gain my favor." — Whittier.~\ 



Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 

Rode the Laird of TJry ; 
Close behind him, close beside, 
5 ^Foul of mouth and evil-eyed. 

Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl, 
Jeered at him the serving-girl, 

Prompt to please her master ; 
10 And, the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate. 

Cursed him as he passed her. 

Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 
15 Came he slowly riding ; 

And, to all he saw and heard 
Answering not with bitter word. 
Turning not for chiding. 



30 BARCLAY OF URY. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
20 Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 

Loose and free and froward ; 
Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down I 
Push him ! prick him ! through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward ! " 

25 But from out the thickening crowd 

Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

'^ Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay ! " 

And the old man at his side 

Saw a comrade, battle tried, 
30 Scarred and sunburned darldy 

Who with ready weapon bare. 
Fronting to the troopers there, 

Cried aloud : " God save us, 
Call ye coward him v/ho stood 
35 Ankle deep in Liitzen's blood. 

With the brave Gustavus ? " 

" Nay, I do not need thy sword. 
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 

" Put it up, I pray thee : 
40 Passive to His holy will, 
Trust I in my Master still, 

Even though He slay me. 

" Pledges of thy love and faith, 
Proved on many a field of death, 
46 Not by me are needed." 

35. It was at Llitzen, near Leipzig, that Gustavus Adolphus fell in 1G32. He 
was the hero of Schiller's Wallenstein, which Carlyle calls "the greatest 
tragedy of the eighteenth century." 



BARCLAY OF URY. 31 

Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, : 

Now so meekly pleaded. 

" Woe 's the day ! " he sadly said, 
50 With a slowly shaking head, 

And a look of pity ; 
" Ury's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 

In his own good city ! 

55 " Speak the word, and, master mine. 
As we charged on Tilly's line. 

And his Walloon lancers. 
Smiting through their midst we '11 teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers ! " 



fiO 



" Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
Like beginning, like the end : " 

Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
" Is the sinful servant more 
* 65 Than his gracious Lord who bore 

Bonds and stripes in Jewry ? 

" Give me joy that in His name 
I can bear, with patient frame. 

All these vain ones offer ; 
70 While for them He suffereth long. 
Shall I answer wrong with wi'ong, 

Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

56. Count de Tilly was a fierce soldier under Wallenstein, who in the Thirty 
Years' War laid siege to Magdeburg, and after two years took it and displayed 
great barbarity toward the inhabitants. The phrase, " like old Tilly," is still 
heard sometimes in New England of any piece of special ferocity. 



32 BARCLAY OF URY. 

'' Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 
75 With few friends to greet me, 

Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me. 

" When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, 
80 Blessed me as I passed her door ; 

And the snooded daughter. 
Through her casement glancing down, 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

85 '' Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 
Hard the old friend's falling off. 

Hard to learn forgiving ; 
But the Lord His own rewards. 
And His love with theirs accords, 

90 Warm and fresh and living. 

" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking ; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
95 In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking ! 



» 



So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
100 Where, through iron grates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! ^ 



BARCLAY OF URY, 33 

Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 
105 Of thy day of trial ; 

Every age on him, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways, 
Pours its sevenfold vial. . 

Happy he whose inward ear 
110 Angel comfortings can hear, 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
GlimjDses through the smoke discern 

Of the good hereafter. 

115 Knowing this, that never yet 

Share of Truth was vainly set 
In the world's wide fallow ; 

After hands shall sow the seed, 

After hands from hill and mead 
120 Reap the harvests yellow. 

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 

Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 

Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 

125 And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow ! 
3 



34 ' MAUD MULLER. 

IV. 

MAUD MULLER. 

Maud Muller, on a summer's day, 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
Of simple heauty and rustic health. 

5 Singing she wrought, and her merry glee 
The mock-hird echoed from his tree. 

But when she glanced to the far-off town, 
White from its hill-slope looking down, 

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
10 And a nameless longing filled her breast, — 

A wish, that she hardly dared to own, 
For something better than she had known. 



'& 



The Judge rode slpwly down the lane, 
Smoothino; his horse's chestnut mane. 



*& 



15 He drew his bridle in the shade 
Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 

And asked a draught from the spring that flowed 
Through the meadow across the road. 

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
20 And filled for him her small tin cup. 



1 



3fAUD MULLER. 35 

And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 

" Thanks ! " said the Judge ; " a sweeter draught 
From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 

25 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, 
Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; 

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
30 And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; 

A ltd listened, while a pleased surprise 
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 

At last, like one who for delay 
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 

^^ Maud Muller looked and sighed : " Ah me ! 
That I the Judge's bride might be ! 

"He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
And praise and toast me at his wine. 

" My father should wear a broadcloth coat 
40 My brother should sail a painted boat. 

" I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
And the baby should have a new toy eacji day. 



36 MAUD MULLER. 

" And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
And all should bless me who left our door." 

45 The Judge looked hack as he climbed the hill, 
And saw Maud MuUer standing still. 

" A form more fair, a face more sweet, 
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 

" And her modest answer and graceful air 
60 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 

" Would she were mine, and I, to-day, 
Like her, a harvester of hay : 

" No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 

. 65 " But low of cattle and song of birds. 
And health and quiet and loving words." 

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold. 
And his mother vain of her rank and gold. 

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
60 And Maud was left in the field alone. 

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, 
When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; 

And the young girl mused beside the well 
Till tjie rain on the unraked clover fell. 



MAUD MULLER. 37 

65 He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
He watched a picture come and go ; 

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes 
70 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, 
He longed for the wayside well instead ; 

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms 
To dream of meadows and clover blooms. 

75 And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, 
" Ah, that I were free again \ 



" Free as when I rode that day. 

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay. 



j» 



She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
80 And many children played round her door. 

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain, 
Left their traces on heart and brain. 

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
On the new-mown hay in the meadoAV lot, 

85 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
Over the roadside, through the wall. 



38 MAUD MULLER. 

In the shade of the apple-tree again 
She saw a rider draw his rein. 

And, gazing down with timid grace, 
90 She felt liis pleased eyes read her face. 

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
Stretched away into stately halls ; 

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
The tallow candle an astral burned, 

95 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
Dozing and grumbling o'er pij)e and mug, 

A manly form at her side she saw, 
And joy was duty and love was law. 

Then she took up her burden of life again, 
100 Saying only, " It might have been." 

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, 

For rich rej)iner and household drudge ! 

God pity them both ! and pity us all, 
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. 

105 For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 

The saddest are these : " It might have been! " 



■&' 



Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes ; 

106. Tlie exigencies of rhyme have a heavy burden to bear in this line. 



KATHLEEN. 39 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
110 Roll the stone from its grave away ! 



V. 

KATHLEEJ^. 

[This ballad was originally published in a prose work 
by Mr. Whittier, as the song of a wandering Milesian 
schoolmaster. 

In the seventeenth century, slavery in the New World 
was by no means confined to the natives of Africa. 
Political offenders and criminals were transported by 
the British government to the plantations of Barbadoes 
and Virginia, where they were sold like cattle in the 
market. Kidnapping of free and innocent white per- 
sons was practised to a considerable extent in the sea- 
ports of the United Kingdom.] 



O NoRAH, lay your basket down, 
And rest your weary hand, 

And come and hear me sing a song 
Of our old Ireland. 

B There was a lord of Galaway, 
A mighty lord was he ; 
And he did wed a second wife, 
A maid of lov\'^ degree. 

But he was old, and she was young, 
10 And so, in evil spite, 



40 KATHLEEN. 

She baked the black bread for his kin, 
And fed her own with white. 

She whipped the maids and starved the kern, 
And drove away the poor ; 
15 " Ah, woe is me ! " the old lord said, 
" I rue my bargain sore ! " 

This lord he had a daughter fair, 

Beloved of old and young, 
And nightly round the shealing-fires 
20 Of her the gleeman sung. 

"As sweet and good is young Katlileen 

As Eve before her fall " ; 
So sang the harper at the fair, 

So harped he in the hall. 

25 " Oh come to me, my daughter dear ! 
Come sit upon my knee. 
For looking in your face, Kathleen, 
Your mother's own I see ! " 

He smoothed and smoothed her hair away, 
30 He kissed her forehead fair ; 
" It is my darling Mary's brow, 
It is my darling's hair ! " 

Oh, then spake up the angry dame, . 
"" Get up, get up," quoth she, 
35 " I '11 sell ye over Ireland, 
I '11 sell ye o'er the sea ! " 



KA THLEEN. 41 



She clipped her glossy hair away, 

That none her rank might know, 
She took away her gown of silk, 
40 And gave her one of tow, 

And sent her down to Limerick town 

And to a seaman sold 
This dauGfhter of an Irish lord 

O 

For ten good pounds in gold. 

45 The lord he smote upon his breast, 
And tore his beard so gray ; 
But he was old, and she was young. 
And so she had her way. 



Sure that same night the Banshee howled 
50 To fright the evil dame, 

And' fairy folks, who loved Katlileen, 
With funeral torches came. 



She watched them glancing through the trees, 
And glimmering down the hill ; 
55 They crept before the dead-vault door. 
And there they all stood still ! 



" Get up, old man ! the wake-lights shine ! 

" Ye murthering witch," quoth he, 
" So I 'm rid of your tongue, I little care 
60 If they shine for you or me." 

" Oh, whoso brings my daughter back. 
My gold and land shall have ! " 

Oh, then spake up his handsome page, 
" No gold nor land I crave ! 



» 



42 KATHLEEN. 

65 " But give to me your daughter dear, 
Give sweet Kathleen to me, 
Be she on sea or be she on land, 
I '11 bring her back to thee." 

" My daughter is a lady born, 
70 And you of low degree, 

But she shall be your bride the day 
You bring her back to me." 

He sailed east, he sailed west. 
And far and long sailed he, 
75 Until he came to Boston town. 
Across the erreat salt sea. 



b' 



" Oh, have ye seen the young Kathleen, 

The flower of Ireland ? 
Ye '11 know her by her eyes so blue, 
80 And by her snow-white hand I " 

Out spake an ancient man, " I know 
The maiden whom ye mean ; 

I bought her of a Limerick man, 
And she is called Katlileen. 

85 " No skill hath she in household work. 
Her hands are soft and white. 
Yet well by loving looks and ways 
She doth her cost requite." 

So up they walked through Boston town, 
90 And met a maiden fair, 
A little basket on her arm 

So snowy-white and bare. / 



KATHLEEN. 43 

" Come hither, child, and say hast thou 
This young man ever seen?" 
95 They wept within each other's arms, 
The p3ge and young Kathleen. 

" Oh, give to me this darling child, 

And take my purse of gold." 
" Nay, not by me," her master said, 
100 " Shall sweet Kathleen be sold. 

" We loved her in the j)lace of one 

The Lord hath early ta'en ; 
But, since her heart 's in Ireland, 

We give her back again ! " 

105 Oh, for that same the saints in heaven 
For liis poor soul shall pray. 
And Mary Mother wash with tears 
His heresies away. 

« 

Sure now they dwell in Ireland, 
no As you go up Claremore 

Ye 11 see their castle looking down 
The pleasant Galway shore. 

And the old lord's wife is dead and gone. 
And a happy man is he, 
115 For he sits beside his own Kathleen, 
With her darling on his knee. 



44 RED RIDING-HOOD. 

VI. 

RED RIDING-HOOD. 

Ox the wide lawn the snow lay deep, 
Ridged o'er with many a drifted heap ; 
The wmd that through the pine-trees sung 
The naked elm-boughs tossed and swung ; 
5 While through the window, frosty-starred, 
Against the sunset purple barred, 
We saw the sombre crow flap by. 
The hawk's gray fleck along the sky, 
The crested blue-jay flitting swift, 
10 The squirrel poising on the drift. 
Erect, alert, his broad gray tail 
Set to the north wind like a sail. 

It came to pass, our little lass, 
Witli flattened face against the glass, 

15 And eyes in which the tender dew 
Of pity shone, stood gazing through 
The narrow space her rosy lips 
Had melted from the frost's eclipse : 
"Oh, see," she cried, " the poor blue-jays! 

20 What is it that the black crow says ? 
The squirrel lifts his little legs 
Because he has no hands, and begs ; 
He 's asking for my nuts, I know : 
May I not feed them on the snow ? " 

25 Half lost within her boots, her head 
Warm-sheltered in her hood of red, 



RED RIDING-IIOOD. 45 

Her plaid skirt close about her drawn, 
She floundered down the wintry lawn ; 
Now struggling through the misty veil 

30 Blown round her by the shrieking gale ; 
Now sinking in a drift so low 
Her scarlet hood could scarcely show 

. Its dash of color on the snow. 

She dropped for bird and beast forlorn 

35 Her little store of nuts and corn, 
And thus her timid guests bespoke : 
" Come, squirrel, from your hollow oak, — 
Come, black old crow, — come, poor blue-jay. 
Before your supper 's blown away ! 

40 Don't be afraid, we all are good ; 

And I 'm mamma's Red Riding-Hood ! " 

O Thou whose care is over all. 
Who heedest even the sparrow's fall, 
Keep in the little maiden's breast 

45 The pity which is now its guest ! 
Let not her cultured years make less 
The childhood charm of tenderness, 
But let her feel as well as know. 
Nor harder with her polish grow ! 

50 Unmoved by sentimental grief 
That wails along some printed leaf. 
But, prompt with kindly word and deed 
To own the claims of all who need, 
Let the grown woman's self make good 

55 The promise of Red Riding, Hood ! 



46 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 



VII. 
IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 

Still sits tlie school-house by the road, 

A ragged beggar sunning ; 
Around it still the sumachs grow, 

And blackberry-vines are running. 

6 Within, the master's desk- is seen, 
Deep scarred by raps official ; 
The warping floor, the battered seats, 
The jack-knife's carved initial ; 

The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 
10 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
Went storming out to playing ! 

Long years ago a winter sun 
Shone over it at setting ; 
15 Lit up its western window-panes, 
And low eaves' icy fretting. 

It touched the tangled golden curls, 
And brown eyes full of grieving, 
Of one who still her steps delayed 
20 When all the school were leaving, 



&• 



For near her stood the little boy 
Her childish favor singled : 



IN SCHOOLED AYS. 47 

His cap pulled low upon a face 

Where pride and shame were mingled. 

25 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
To right and left, he lingered ; — 
As restlessly her tiny hands 

The blue-checked apron fingered. 

He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
30 The soft hand's light caressing, 
And heard the tremble of her voice, 
As if a fault confessmg. 

" I 'm sorry that I spelt the word : 
I hate to go above you, 
35 Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
" Because, you see, I love you ! " 

Still memory to a gray-haired man 
That sweet child-face is showingr. 
Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
40 Have forty years been growmg ! 



He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
How few who pass above him 

Lament their triumph and his loss. 
Like her, — because they love him. 



48 MARY CARVIN. 



VIII. 

MARY GARVIN. 

From tlie heart of Waiimbek Metlina, from the lake 
that never fails, 

Falls the Saco in the green lap of Conway's inter- 
vales ; 

There, in wild and virgin freshness, its waters foam 
and flow, 

As when Darby Field first saw them, tAvo hundred 
years ago. 

5 But, vexed in all its seaward course with bridges, 

dams, and mills, 
How changed is Saco's stream, how lost its freedom 

of the hills, 
Since travelled Jocelyn, factor Vines, and stately 

Champernoon 
Heard on its banks the gray wolf's howl, the trumpet 

of the loon ! 

With smoking axle hot with speed, with steeds of 
fire and steam, 
10 Wide-waked To-day leaves Yesterday behind him 
like a dream. 
Still, from the hurrying train of Life, fly backward 
far and fast 
s The milestones of the fathers, the landmarks of the 
past. 



MARY GARVIN. 49 

But human hearts remain unchanged : the sorrow 
and the sin, 

The loves and hopes and fears of old, are to our own 
akin ; 
15 And if, in tales our fathers told, the songs our moth- 
ers sung, 

Tradition wears a snowy beard, Romance is always 
young. 

O sharp-lined man of traffic, on Saco's banks to- 
day ! 

O mill-girl watching late and long the shuttle's rest- 
less play ! 

Let, for the once, a listening ear the working hand 
beguile, 
20 And lend my old Provincial tale, as suits, a tear or 
smile ! 



The evening gun had sounded from gi^ay Fort Mary's 

walls ; 
Through the forest, like a wild beast, roared and 

plunged the Saco's falls. 

And westward on the sea-wind, that damp and gusty 
grew, 

Over cedars darkening inland the smokes of Spur- 
wink blew. 



25 On the hearth of Farmer Garvin blazed the crackling 
walnut log ; 
Right and left sat dame and goodman, and between 
them lay the dog, 
4 



50 MARY GARVIN. 

Head on paws, and tail slow wagging, and beside him 

on her mat, 
Sitting drowsy in the fire-light, winked and purred 

the mottled cat. 

" Twenty years ! " said Goodman Garvin, speaking 
sadly, under breath, 
30 And his gray head slowly shaking, as one who speaks 
of death. 

The goodwife dropped her needles : " It is twenty 

years to-day, 
Since the Indians fell on Saco, and stole our child 

away." 

Then they sank into the silence, for each knew the 

other's thought. 
Of a great and common sorrow, and words were 

needed not. 

35 " Who knocks ? " cried Goodman Garvin. The door 
was open thrown ; 
On two strangers, man and maiden, cloaked and 
furred, the fire-light shone. 

One with courteous gesture lifted the bear-skin from 

his head ; 
"Lives here Elkanah Garvin?" " I am he," the 

goodman said. 

" Sit ye down, and dry and warm ye, for the night is 
chill with rain." 
40 And the goodwife drew the settle, and stirred the fire 
amain. 



MARY GARVIN. 51 

The maid unclasped her cloak-hood, the fire-light 

glistened fair 
In her large, moi^ eyes, and over soft folds of dark 

brown hair. 

Dame Garvin looked upon her : "It is Mary's self I 

see ! 
Dear heart ! " she cried, " now tell me, has my child 

come back to me ? " 

45 " My name indeed is Mary," said the stranger, sob- 
bino^ wild : 
" Will you be to me a mother ? I am IMary Garvin's 
child ! 

"She sleeps by wooded Simcoe, but on her dying 

day 
She bade my father take me to her kinsfolk far 

away. 

" And when the priest besought her to do me no such 
wrong, 
50 She said, ' May God forgive me ! I have closed my 
heart too long-. 



'O' 



" ' When I hid me from my father, and shut out my 

mother's call, 
I sinned against those dear ones, and the Father of us 

aU. 

" * Christ's love rebukes no home-love, breaks no tie 

of kin apart ; 
Better heresy in doctrine, than heresy of heart. 



52 3fARY GARVIN. 

65 '' ' Tell me not the Church must censure : she who 
wept the Cross heside 
Never made her own flesh str^igers, nor the claims 
of blood denied ; 

" ' And if she who wronged her parents, with her child 

atones to them, 
Earthly daughter, Heavenly mother! thou at least 

wilt not condemn ! ' 

" So, upon her death-bed lying, my blessed mother 
spake ; 
60 As we come to do her bidding, so receive us for her 
sake." 

" God be praised ! " said Goodwife Garvm, " He tak- 
eth, and he gives ; 

He woundeth, but He healeth ; in her cliild our daugh- 
ter lives ! " 

" Amen I " the old man answered, as he brushed a 
tear away, 

And, kneeling by his hearthstone, said, with rever- 
ence, " Let us pray.' 



j> 



66 All its Oriental symbols, and its Hebrew paraphrase, 
Warm with earnest life and feeling, rose his prayer 
of love and praise. 

But he started at beholding, as he rose from off his 

knee, 
The stranger cross his forehead with the sign of Pa- 

pistrie. 



MARY GARVIN. 53 

" What is tliis ? " cried Farmer Garvin. " Is an 
English Christian's home 
70 A chapel or a mass-house, that you make the sign of 
Rome ? " 

Then the young girl knelt beside him, kissed his 

trembling hand, and cried : 
" Oh, forbear to chide my father ; in that faith my 

mother died ! 

" On her wooden cross at Simcoe the dews and sun- 
shine fall, 
• As they fall on Spur wink's graveyard ; and the dear 
God watches all ! " 

75 The old man stroked the fair head that rested on his 
knee ; 
" Your words, dear child," he answered, " are God's 
rebuke to me. 

" Creed and rite perchance may differ, yet our faith 

and hope be one. 
Let me be your father's father, let him be to me a 

son." 

When the horn, on Sabbath morning, through the still 
and frosty air, 
80 From Spurwink, Pool, and Black Point, called to ser- 
mon and to prayer, 

To the goodly house of worship, where, in order due 

and fit. 
As by public vote directed, classed and ranked the 

people sit ; 



54 MARY GARVIN. 

Mistress first and goodwife after, clerkly squire be- 
fore the clown, 

From the brave coat, lace-embroidered, to the gray 
frock, shading down ; 

85 From the pulpit read the preacher, — " Goodman 
Garvin and his wife 
Fain would thank the Lord, whose kindness has fol- 
lowed them through life, 

" For the great and crowning mercy, that their 

daughter, from the wild. 
Where she rests (they hope in God.'s peace), has 

sent to them her child ; 

" And the prayers of all God's jDcople they ask, that 
they may prove 
90 Not unworthy, through their weakness, of such sj)ecial 
proof of love." 

As the preacher prayed, uprising, the aged couple 
stood, 

And the fair Canadian also, in her modest maiden- 
hood. 

Thought the elders grave and doubting, " She is Pa- 
pist born and bred " ; 

Thought the young men, " 'T is an angel in Mary 
Garvin's stead ! " 



THE EXILES. 55 



IX. 

THE EXILES. 
1660. 

[Thomas Macey, an early settler of Salisbury, Mass., 
was prosecuted for entertaining Quakers, and fled with 
his family in an 023en boat down the river Merrimack 
and out to sea to the island Nantucket which he and 
some of his neighbors, in anticipation of trouble from the 
Puritan authorities, had already purchased as a place of 
refuge.] 

The goodman sat beside his door 

One sultry afternoon. 
With his young wife singing at his side 

An old and goodly tune. 

5 A glimmer of heat was in the air ; 
The dark green woods were still ; 
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud 
Hung over the western hill. 

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud 
10 Above the wilderness, 
As some dark world from upper air 
Were stooping over this. 

At times the solemn thunder pealed, 
And all was still again, 
15 Save a low nmrmur in the air 
Of coming wind and rain. 



• / 



56 THE EXILES. 

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, 

A weary stranger ^ came, 
And stood before the farmer's door, 
20 With travel soiled and lame. 

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope 

Was in his quiet glance, 
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed 

His tranquil countenance. 

25 A look, like that his Master wore 
In Pilate's council-hall : 
It told of wrongs, — but of a love 
Meekly forgiving aU. 

" Friend ! wilt thou give me shelter here ? " 
30 The stranger meekly said ; 
And, leaning on his oaken staff, 
The goodman's features read. 

" My life is hunted, — evil men 
Are following in my track ; 
35 The traces of the torturer's whip 
Are on my aged back. 

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee 

Within thy doors to take 
A hunted seeker of the Truth, 
40 Oppressed for conscience' sake." 

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, — 
" Come in, old man ! " quoth she, — 

* William Robinson or Marmaduke Stevenson. 



THE EXILES. ■ 57 

" We will not leave thee to the storm, 
Whoever thou mayst be." 

45 Then came the aged wanderer in, 
And silent sat him down ; 
While all within grew dark as night 
Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. 

But while the sudden lightning's blaze 
60 Filled every cottage nook, 

And with the jarring thunder-roll 
The loosened casements shook, 

A heavy tramp of horses' feet 
Came sounding up the lane, 
55 And half a score of horse, or more. 
Came plunging through the rain. 

" Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, — 

We would not be house-breakers ; 
A rueful deed thou 'st done this day, 
60 In harboring banished Quakers." 

Out looked the cautious goodman then. 

With much of fear and awe, 
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain. 

The parish priest he saw. 

65 " Open thy door, thou wicked man. 
And let thy pastor in, 
And give God thanks, if forty stripes 
Repay thy deadly sin." 



58 THE EXILES. 

" "What seek ye ? " qiiotli the goodman, — 
70 " The stranger is my guest : 

He is worn ^^'ith toil and grievous wrong, — 
Pray let the old man rest." 

" Now, out upon thee, canting knave ! " 
And strong hands shook the door. 
75 " Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, — 
* " Thou It rue thy conduct sore." 

Then kmdled Macey's eye of fire : 
" No priest who walks the earth 
Shall pluck away the stranger-g-uest 
80 Made welcome to my hearth." 

Down from his cottage wall he caught 

The matchlock, hotly tried 
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, 

By fiery Ireton's side ; 

85 TVhere Puritan, and Cavalier, 

With shout and psalm contended ; 
And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, 
With battle-thunder blended. 

Up rose the ancient stranger then : 
90 '" My spirit is not free 

To brinsr the wrath and violence 
Of evil men on thee : 

" And for thyseK, I pray forbear, — 
Bethink thee of thy Lord, 
95 Who healed asrain the smitten ear, 

And sheathed his follower's sword. 



THE EXILES. 59 



" I go, as to the slaughter led : 

Friends of the poor, farewell ! " 
Beneath his hand the oaken door 
100 Back on its hinges fell. 



't>^ 



" Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," 

The reckless scoffers cried. 
As to a horseman's saddle-bow 

The old man's arms were tied. 

105 And of his bondasre hard and lonsf 
In Boston's crowded jail. 
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, 
With sickening childhood's wail. 

It suits not with our tale to tell : 
110 Those scenes have passed away, — 
Let the dim shadows of the past 
Brood o'er that evil day. 

" Ho, sheriff ! " quoth the ardent priest, — 
" Take Goodman Macey too ; 
115 The sin of this day's heresy 

His back or purse shall rue." 

"Now, goodwife, haste thee ! " Macey cried, 

She caught his manly arm : — 
Behind, the parson urged pursuit, 
120 With outcry and alarm. 

Ho ! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, — 
The river-course was near : — 



60 THE EXILES. 

The plashing on its pebbled shore 
Was music to their ear. 

125 A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, 
Above the waters hung, 
And at its base, with every wave, 
A small light wherry swung. 

A leap — they gain the boat — and there 
130 The goodman wields his oar: 

" 111 luck betide them all," — he cried, — 
"The laggards upon the shore." 

Down through the crashing underwood, 
The burly sheriff came : — 
135 " Stand, Goodman Macey, — yield thyself ; 
Yield in the King's own name. * 

" Now out upon thy hangman's face ! '* 

Bold Macey answered then, — 
" Whip ivomen, on the village green, 
140 But meddle not with menJ'^ 

The priest came panting to the shore, — 
His grave cocked hat was gone ; 

Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung 
His wig upon a thorn. 

145 " Come back, — come back ! " the parson criedj 
" The church's curse beware." 
" Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macey, " but 
Thy blessing prithee spare." 



THE EXILES. 61 

" Vile scoffer ! " cried the baffled priest, — 
150 " Thou 'It yet the gallows see." 

" Who 's born to be hanged, will not be drowned," 
Quoth Macey, merrily ; 



" And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by ! 
He bent him to his oar, 
155 And the small boat glided quietly 
From the twain upon the shore. 

Now in the west, the heavy clouds 

Scattered and fell asunder, 
Wliile feebler came the rush of rain, 
160 And fainter growled the thunder. 

And through the broken clouds, the sun 
Looked out serene and warm, 

Painting its holy symbol-light 
Upon the passing storm. 

165 0, beautiful ! that rainbow span, 

O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ; — 
One bright foot touched the eastern hills, 
And one with ocean blended. 

By green Pentucket's southern slope 
170 The small boat glided fast, — 

The watchers of " the Block-house " saw 
• The strangers as they passed. 

That night a stalwart garrison 
Sat shaking in their shoes, 
175 To hear the dip of Indian oars, — 
The glide of birch canoes. 

1G9. Pentucket. See map and note, p. 64. 



» 



62 THE EXILES. 

^ The fisher-wives of Salishury 

(The men were all away) 
Looked out to see the stranger oar 
180 Upon their waters play. 

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw 
Their sunset-shadows o'er them, 

And Newbury's spire and weathercock 
Peered o'er the pines before them. 

185 Around the Black Eocks, on their left, 
The marsh lay broad and green ; 
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned, 
Plum Island's hills were seen. 

"With skilful hand and wary eye 
190 The harbor-bar was crossed ; — 
A plaything of the restless Avave, 
The boat on ocean tossed. 

The glory of the sunset heaven 
On land and water lay, — 
195 On the steep hills of Agawam, 
On cape, and bluff, and bay. 

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, 

And Gloucester's harbor-bar ; 
The watch-fire of the garrison 
200 Shone like a setting star. 

How brightly broke the morning 

On Massachusetts Bay ! 
Blue wave, and bright green island, 

Rejoicing in the day. 



THE EXILES. 63 

205 On passed the bark in safety 

Round isle and headland steep, — 
No tempest broke above them, 
No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 
210 The vent'rous Maeey passed. 
And on Nantucket's naked isle 
Drew up his boat at last. 

And how, in log-built cabin. 

They braved the rough sea-weather ; 
215 And there, in peace and quietness. 
Went down Hfe's vale together : 

How others drew around them, 
And how their fishing sped, 
Until to every wind of heaven 
220 Nantucket's sails were spread ; 

How pale Want alternated 

With Plenty's golden smile ; 
Behold, is it not written 

In the annals of the isle ? 

225 And yet that isle remalneth 
A refuge of the free. 
As when true-hearted Maeey 
Beheld it from the sea. 

Free as the winds that winnow 
230 Her shrubless hills of sand, — 
Free as the waves that batter 
Along her yielding land. 



64 



THE EXILES. 



Than hers, at duty's summons, 
No loftier spirit stirs, — 
235 Nor falls o'er human suffering 
A readier tear than hers. 

God bless the sea-beat island ! — 

And grant forevermore. 
That charity and freedom dwell 
240 As now upon her shore ! 



Pentucket was the name of the territory on the north bank of the Merrimac, 
including Haverhill. The place is now nearly that of the town of Merrimac. 




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